


Snapshots

by nowhere_dawn_death_phan



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:00:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22721353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowhere_dawn_death_phan/pseuds/nowhere_dawn_death_phan
Summary: Snapshots of Sherlock and John’s lives leading up to the point where they met.
Kudos: 6





	Snapshots

**Author's Note:**

> I know some bits go against canon but let me live, okay?

John Watson is five, and his older brother Hamish sits opposite him at the kitchen table and teaches him how to play marbles with a few clay shooters he won at school. John has his head resting on the table lazily, he doesn’t really care about the game. Hamish flicks a particularly vicious marble and it hits John in the face. One Watson laughs while the other howls.

Sherlock Holmes is five, and he sits and studies an almanack given to him by his older brother Mycroft. Their eldest brother is off somewhere else, but Sherlock and Mycroft sit shoulder to shoulder at the base of a tree and read. Mycroft rolls a blade of grass between his fingers lazily, listening to his brother’s high voice fill the air.

John Watson is eight, and he doesn’t have a father anymore. Hamish deftly spins a glass blown marble across to him and he catches it without really trying. Hamish pokes his tongue out, and John laughs, before clapping a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound. He shouldn’t be laughing. Hamish laughs then, cocks his head back and laughs, laughs to let John know he’s allowed.  
John smiles and throws the marble back. It rolls off the table and disappears from sight and Hamish laughs harder.

Sherlock Holmes is eight when he comes running up to Mycroft holding a pencil and piece of paper. “Done!”  
Mycroft looks up. “Only took you ten minutes. That’s four minutes quicker than last time.”  
“I saw Master Hayes walking his dog this morning, so I was able to tick that off my list without actually having to go over to their house.”  
“That’s cheating, Sherly. You really want to solve mysteries for a living, you can’t rely on coincidences.”  
Sherlock looked at him with a wiseness beyond his years and tapped his pencil against his chin. “I think that coincidences are actually the most important part, because they make it easier to eliminate impossibilities. Say I hadn’t seen Hayes walking his dog and I’d gone to his house, what if his mother had given me a piece of evidence that only impeded my investigation? I’m not relying on the coincidence, you see Mykey, I’m making the most of it.”  
Mycroft had just smiled.

The floorboards of the train creak beneath his feet. He has a gun slung over his shoulder, around him sit a few other men, some of them still boys, hugging themselves and rocking with the movement of the cart. They’re on their way to Afghanistan. Watson’s to be attached to the Berkshires, along with the few of the others. They’re talking amongst themselves, mostly excited, some nervous. John adjusts his pack on his lap. He just wants this to be over.

The air is warm. Unusually warm, for London - particularly in October. Sherlock Holmes sits in the corner of a room, arms folded, head sunk on his chest. People around him are talking, laughing, and he eyes them distastefully. Opium isn’t his thing. He’s here on business matters, Wiggins is indisposed and the younger Irregulars dislike the thick atmosphere that swamps them inside these halls, which he doesn’t blame them for. He doesn’t like this either; but sometimes needs must, and this - as much as he dislikes it - is one of those occasions.  
He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small Moroccan leather case, twisting it between his fingers. He might as well make himself comfy now he’s here.  
It’s an unusually warm day in London, for an October.  
The air is warm; but the needle is cold.

The train moves beneath his feet, and his whole body sways with it. This carriage has a different atmosphere than the last one he was on. They’re happy. Tired, but happy. Exhausted but relieved. They’re going home, that’s what this is. Back to England.  
The war isn’t over; far from it in fact. But still, they’re going home.  
There’s singing from further down, but it’s muffled.  
Men, boys around him are lying on each other, holding each other up, arms and legs draped across each other. Watson leans against the wall.  
To his right sits a man, maybe the same age as him, maybe a little older, with a close-cropped beard and keen eyes. Well, the one eye that Watson can see, anyway, as the other side of his head is bandaged.  
The man notices him looking and offers his hand. “Colonel Moran.” He says, and his accent is London. Broad, clear, but each word is defined. Not Cockney, but if he had to take a guess he wouldn’t like his chances.  
Watson smiles. “Doctor Watson.” He says in response, taking the offered hand. The two talk for a while. About what, Watson can’t remember. He falls asleep with his head on the Colonel’s shoulder, and their paths never cross again.

It’s a calm day when the two paths cross for the first time. Sherlock’s busy; Watson’s just wandering. Stamford introduces them, with curt nods and expectant smiles. Sherlock’s eyes are like a hawk, sharp and all-knowing. Watson’s are tired and hollow like caves, swallowing the light and drawing in the darkness.  
Sherlock’s voice is velvet, smooth and strong and textured by time.  
Watson’s voice is stone, rough and raw and eroded by hardship.  
It’s a calm day when two men shake hands in the basement of St. Bartholomew’s.  
It’s the last calm day either of them are to have for quite a while.


End file.
